


That Other Place

by wendymr



Series: Beg Forgiveness, Not Permission [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Wouldn’t want to miss out anything from the proper Cambridge experience.” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Other Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Suspect](http://archiveofourown.org/works/507167), and one or two minor aspects may not make sense if you have not read that fic. The title is a reference to the way the universities of Oxford and Cambridge refer to each other. As always, my thanks and appreciation to Lindenharp for BRing.

“There’s not as much traffic as on Magdalene Bridge, I’ll give you that.”

He and James are leaning against the parapet of Silver Street Bridge in Cambridge, looking north along the Cam to the Mathematical Bridge, and to Queen’s College on their left. James, of course, has a cigarette in his hand.

“And yet this is one of the noisiest river-views in Cambridge.” James glances sideways at him, smiling faintly. “The best views are all along the Backs.”

Robbie frowns. “Backs?”

“The backs of the river colleges – King’s, Trinity, Queen’s, St John’s. Strictly speaking,” he adds, and Robbie can hear him switch into lecturing mode, “the Backs are on the opposite side of the river to the colleges, but most people refer to the open land leading down to the river on either side as the Backs. If it wasn’t the middle of winter,” he adds, now conversational again, “we could hire a punt and I’d show you. The views from the river are stunning.”

“Tried that once on the Cherwell, when the kids were younger. I kept getting stuck in the long grass over by the bank.”

James tries but fails to stifle a smirk. “I was mostly a rower,” he says after a moment, “but I wasn’t bad at punting. Come back with me in June – you have to see Cambridge from the river.”

“Show-off,” Robbie retorts, but he does actually like the idea. “Tell me this: if you’re driving, do I get to sip champagne and look important?”

“Pimms, dahling,” James drawls. “And, yes, if you insist, that could be part of the package.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss out anything from the proper Cambridge experience.” Robbie quirks an eyebrow. “I’ll do me research before we come back an’ I’ll be markin’ you out of ten, be warned.”

“I always do well on tests,” James points out, and stubs out his cigarette.

 

***

“So which is your college?” Robbie asks as they walk along Silver Street towards the centre of town.

“Peterhouse – the oldest,” James says, gesturing to his right. “It’s that way, close to the Fitzwilliam Museum – but I’m taking you in the other direction first.”

“Why’s that, then?” It’s not that he really cares; this is James’s outing and he’d already decided even before they left Oxford that, even if he’s bored rigid by another university town, he’d never let the lad see it.

“The river colleges are this way, and since they’re usually considered the most attractive...” James shrugs faintly, as if to indicate that he doesn’t necessarily agree with conventional wisdom on the subject. 

“An’ what’s your opinion on the subject, then?” he asks, brushing shoulders with James as they move closer to let a tour-group pass.

“Depends whether we’re talking architecturally, or historically, or purely aesthetically,” James answers in his most pompous tone. Robbie jabs him with an elbow, and James’s lips quirk at the corners. “Besides Peterhouse, I always admired Gonville and Caius, though I admit King’s College has the most impressive chapel.”

“Go on, then, show me.” 

James gives him another quick smile and continues walking, pointing out sights along the way and digressing into explanations, history and esoteric facts as they go. And it’s not boring at all, and Robbie should never have imagined it might be – since when has he ever found James Hathaway _boring_? Amusing, infuriating, interesting, know-it-all, smartarse – all those and more, but never boring. 

James is the reason he’s here, of course, not Cambridge. After the Lady Matilda’s case and everything James did for him then, and his suspicion that the bloke was uncertain of his importance to Robbie, there’s not too much he wouldn’t do to show the lad that he’s more than just his bagman. Far more. 

He’s always enjoyed James’s company anyway. Of course, those first casual invitations for a pint over lunch or after work were more or less obligation; it’s part of building the inspector-sergeant relationship and an opportunity to offer more informal mentoring away from an official setting. Very quickly, though, those after-hours quick pints turned into lingering conversations on non-work topics, sometimes over a pub meal as well. And James’s visits to his flat to update him on a case usually turned into an evening spent watching telly together. 

It would never have occurred to Robbie that James didn’t know he considered the bloke a friend as well as a colleague, until James’s strangely hostile reaction to Ali McLennan. He had no idea James felt in any way insecure where he’s concerned. It’s bollocks, of course. James shouldn’t need to be told – it should be bloody obvious to him – but after what the bloke did for Robbie this last week it’s not exactly a hardship to make a bit of extra effort. 

And, truth be told, he gains out of this too. What else would he be doing on a Sunday spent off-duty? Laundry, ironing, tidying the flat, doing a bit of shopping – and probably heading to the pub in the evening to watch a match, or phoning James to see if he fancied a pint or a takeaway. 

Anyway, despite his protests to James about bloody university towns, he is genuinely curious to know more about the lad’s past, and Cambridge is obviously an important part of his past. So he lets James entertain him with amusing anecdotes about their surroundings, and some of the more ludicrous student pranks, and then after a while seizes his moment. 

“Go on then, what sort of mischief did you get up to as a student?”

“Me?” James widens his eyes in exaggerated disbelief. “I was a model of exemplary behaviour. Had to be,” he adds in a self-deprecating tone – but there’s something in his voice that sets Robbie’s detective instincts on alert. If he’s not mistaken, he’s about to learn something significant about his friend. “I had a College scholarship I’d have lost if I’d broken regulations.” He shrugs very faintly. “It covered room and board.”

Ah. And James couldn’t have afforded Cambridge without it? That would make sense; university grants had been abolished by the time he would have been a student. Even if his family income was low enough for him to be exempt from fees, there would still have been living expenses – not cheap in this place, not at all. Of course he had a scholarship. And that answers one question that’s nagged at Robbie ever since Crevecoeur: how the son of an estate manager got to go to public school and one of the country’s top universities. He’d bet anything James cared to mention that the bloke had a scholarship for his public school as well. 

He’s not going to let on, of course, that he realises James has just disclosed something very personal. Instead, he nudges the lad’s elbow. “Can’t see you stayin’ out late gettin’ drunk, throwing up an’ then climbing over the walls to get back into college, anyway. Even if you are lanky enough to manage it.”

“I’m afraid I did have to make an unauthorised entrance to my college once,” James says, his tone solemn enough to suggest that he’s imparting tragic news. “I’m sorry to shatter what is clearly your very high opinion of my supposed behaviour as a student.”

Robbie snorts. “I’m just relieved to know you acted like one of us normal lesser beings once in a while.” He glances at James. “So, go on then. What was it? Stayed out too late partying after your lot won the Boat Race? Or were you with a–” He breaks off, realising that he’d been about to say _girlfriend_ , but he still isn’t convinced of James’s preference in that regard, even despite the couple of relationships with women that Robbie’s aware of. “A lover,” he finishes, a bit feebly, after a moment.

James’s lips thin instantly, and Robbie curses silently. Why does the lad have to be so secretive about his personal life, even now? It must be obvious to him that Robbie’s hardly going to judge him. 

Or maybe it’s not. Robbie sighs, reaching out to touch James’s forearm and squeezing it lightly. “Doesn’t make any difference to me if you’re attracted to men, women, both or neither. Was just makin’ conversation. I didn’t even think – it’s not like I was tryin’ to trick you into telling me anything you don’t want to.”

James stops walking and closes his eyes briefly before turning to meet Robbie’s gaze. “I’m sorry, si–” At Robbie’s quick frown, he halts and corrects himself. “Robbie. You’re right. I’m far too over-sensitive on that topic.” He takes a deep breath, then continues, resuming walking at the same time, “Actually, it’s an extremely boring story. The night I was late and had to climb over the walls, I’d been to a talk at the university theological society. Hans Küng was the visiting speaker – he’s one of the most respected living theologians in the world, though not altogether popular with the Catholic Church.” James’s lips quirk in a faint smile. “They were just a little upset at his public denial of papal infallibility. Anyway, that night a group of us ended up talking with him until after midnight, and I got locked out.”

Typical. He avoids the serious question – not that it was really a question, though Robbie is now even more curious than before – and answers the trivial one.

One of these days, he vows, he’ll find out just why James is so reticent on the subject of his love life – assuming he’s ever really had one, Fiona McKendrick and Scarlett Mortmaigne aside.

 

***

They’re strolling by the river behind King’s, chatting idly about differences in terminology between Oxford and Cambridge, when James abruptly casts away the end of the cigarette he was smoking and changes the subject.

“I’m bisexual. Which is why, by the way, I wasn’t able to give you a simple answer when you asked if I was gay.” James continues walking along the river-bank, hands now stuffed deep in his coat pockets, gaze angled towards the water. “I have tended towards relationships with women, mainly because appearing to be straight is... easier. And also, as you know, because for a long time I... wasn’t comfortable... with the side of my sexuality that tended towards men. As to why I didn’t tell you–”

“There was no reason you had to tell me,” Robbie interrupts immediately. He’s wishing James had said nothing – not because he’s put off by this, not at all, but because it’s obvious that James doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s told Robbie because Robbie made him feel guilty for _not_ talking about it, and that’s just wrong.

But James glances briefly towards him, and there’s no resentment in his eyes. “Actually, I’m glad you know. I should have... It’s just not exactly an easy topic to bring up over a pint at the Perch, is it? _One for the road, sir? And, by the way, since I know you’ve been wondering, I swing both ways_.”

And how would he have reacted if James had said that? Not negatively, never that – but probably sufficiently speechless that James would’ve interpreted it as negative, or at the very least as something that should never be mentioned between them again.

Before he can say anything, James is speaking again. “I’ve kept it to myself mainly because – apart from it being nobody else’s business unless I choose otherwise – most coppers don’t want to work with someone who’s attracted to their own sex. And I know that doesn’t include you, so you needn’t point that out to me. But it’s also true that very few people understand bisexuality. The most common response to someone coming out as bi is an accusation that they’re just trying to have it both ways and they can’t make up their mind. Few people seem to believe that it’s a genuine orientation.”

“I do,” Robbie points out, just in case James is idiotic enough to think otherwise. Even if he’d been sceptical before – which he wasn’t – all it would’ve taken was James’s identification as bisexual to change his mind. Not that they’ve ever talked about stuff like that, other than his cack-handed attempt to find out if James was gay, so maybe James was including him in the many who reject the existence of bisexuality.

“I know.” James pulls one hand from his pocket and lays it briefly against Robbie’s back. 

“How?”

“Mostly, because as well as being very intelligent, you’re also the most open-minded bloke I know.” James’s lips turn up at the corners in that faint smile of his. 

Robbie can feel himself blushing, his skin warm even against the cold breeze coming across the river. “Ah, get away with you.” A sudden gust makes him shiver, and he’s grateful for the distraction. “Reckon it’s past time for a cuppa. Didn’t I see a tea-shop before we came in here?”

James immediately reverses direction. “I know just the place.”

 

***

After two cuppas and a hot buttered scone at Auntie’s Tea Shop just off Trumpington Street, Robbie’s warmed up enough to say what he should have said out by the river. “I’m gonna say just one more thing about what you told me, and then I’ll never mention it again unless you bring it up. All right?”

James just nods, though his expression’s grateful.

“You said coppers aren’t generally that open-minded about same-sex relationships, an’ you’re right. So, just in case that’s stoppin’ you having a relationship with a bloke – well, unless you already are an’ you’re just keeping it very quiet–” James denies that with a sharp shake of his head. “All right, then, but if there is someone you’re interested in, don’t let the station gossips and bigots stop you. Anyone has a go at you, to your face or behind your back, they’ll have me to answer to.”

It’s several moments before James speaks, and in the meantime he ducks his head, staring down at his plate. When he finally meets Robbie’s gaze again, his smile is crooked, sardonic. “My hero,” he murmurs. 

But Robbie knows him better than to take the less than appreciative response at face value. He flicks James’s hand with his napkin. “Yeah, yeah, smartarse. Time’s gettin’ on, in case you hadn’t noticed. If you want to show me your college, best get a move on.”

“Absolutely.” The haste with which James pushes his chair back and stands might be considered unseemly in anyone else, but even in this his sergeant manages to appear smooth and in control of his actions. Still, Robbie’s not fooled. James is doing a good job of hiding it, but Robbie just knows him too well. James isn’t just touched and grateful that Robbie would defend him like that, but he has no idea why Robbie would want to.

How can a bloke be so clever and yet at the same time be such a sodding idiot?

Of course, Robbie could tell him that after everything James did for him in the past week, sticking his neck out and actually putting his career on the line not only to make sure that his boss was cleared of any suspicion of involvement in Ali McLennan’s death but also ensuring that he wasn’t left completely isolated while the investigation progressed, there’s not much Robbie wouldn’t do for James in return. But that would only embarrass James more. 

“Lead on, then, if you must.” He follows James back out into the chill winter air, and back up Trumpington Street towards Peterhouse.

 

***

Robbie does actually enjoy the guided tour of Peterhouse. He just doesn’t let on. James expects him to be grumpy and sarky about it, and so he is – it’s how their partnership has always worked, and it’s not as if James can’t see through him every bit as clearly as he can see through James.

Really, though, he loves every minute of it. It’s fascinating, seeing where his awkward sod spent three of the most important years of his life, learning and discovering, growing up, winning the bloody Boat Race and doubtless confounding the expectations of everyone who thought the son of an estate manager – or whatever James’s parents did after they left Crevecoeur – could never be anything more than mediocre at a place like Cambridge.

And James is an entertaining guide, too. It’s not all dry facts and dates as they wander around the courts and cloisters of the college, into the chapel and up the staircase where James’s rooms were. He’s got anecdotes about spy rings – some of which Robbie suspects are at the least apocryphal – inebriated academics and student pranks, as well as a bit of name-dropping, mainly of the college’s more dubiously infamous graduates.

By the time dusk is falling and it’s time to head back to the car, Robbie’s genuinely sorry the day’s over. “I enjoyed meself today,” he says, getting into the passenger seat; James insisted on driving. 

“What, even though I dragged you to another bloody university town?” James’s tone is dry, but his eyes sparkle with humour and pleasure.

“Even though.” Course, his enjoyment’s at least as much the result of the company as their destination, though he’s not going to say that – at least, not in so many words. “Helped that I had a half-decent guide,” he concedes.

James smiles as he drives towards the A1(M). “Your turn next. Do I get a tour of the sights and wonders of Newcastle?”

He wasn’t expecting that, but it makes sense that James would suggest it. “Bit of a trek, that. Couldn’t do there an’ back in a day, not and have any time to look around.”

“I know a good website,” James says instantly. “Decent hotels and B&Bs at discount rates.”

He’s about to dismiss the idea as ridiculous, but then hesitates. Actually... it’s not a bad idea at all. “All right, then, you’re on. Next time we’ve both got a couple of days off an’ we’re not doing anything else.”

“I’ll start researching accommodation,” James says, his voice smooth – but Robbie can see the pleased flush creeping across his neck and ears. 

Looks like he might be spending yet more off-duty time with his sergeant in future that’s not limited to pints at the White Hart or various other haunts, or takeaway at one or other’s flat. And Robbie finds that he’s smiling at the thought.

 

***

It’s getting late when they make it back to Oxford – they stopped for a pub meal on the way, and then traffic was bad on the Headington Road into the city. It’s also Sunday, so they’re working tomorrow. Robbie turns to James as the younger man pulls up outside Robbie’s flat. “I’d ask you in for coffee, but I’m knackered. Sorry.”

James clasps a hand to his heart. “No more thy pains for others' welfare spend, nor think by service to attach a friend: All are ungrateful – love goes slighted still – Nor merely so, but is repaid by ill.”

Robbie responds with a mock-exasperated sigh. “An’ what’s that, then? Not Shakespeare. One of the boys in the band?” 

“Wrong millennium entirely.” James quirks an eyebrow, before declaiming in a mournful tone, “ _Desine de quoquam quicquam bene velle mereri aut aliquem fieri posse putare pium_. Catullus.”

“Oh, him. He’s the one wrote all those poems about Lesbia, right?” Erotic stuff. Morse had once quoted a poem at him in support of one of his wild theories about a case they were working on.

“He is indeed!” James pretends amazement, and Robbie swipes at his arm. “I’m impressed, Inspector Lewis. Your classical knowledge improves by the day.”

“And your smartarsery gets worse by the hour, Sergeant Hathaway.” Robbie reaches for the door-handle. “See you tomorrow.”

James’s hand on his shoulder stops him moving. “Since you haven’t yet told me not to do it again...”

Robbie gives him an enquiring look. James leans across and, before Robbie can guess his intent, presses a soft kiss against his lips. “Goodnight,” he says cheerfully as he moves away.

“Cheeky sod,” Robbie mutters, getting out of the car. 

Winding him up, he is, the bloody tosser. Well, if he’s waiting for a reaction to his mockery, he’d best not hold his breath, that’s all Robbie can say.


End file.
